December 1st 1989.
History as we know it states that the cold war would officially cease a mere two days later, December 3rd, 1989. That day never came. Tearing ravenously out of the ground scattered across the USSR, steel monuments of destruction thundered through cool evening's air, the wobble of christmas cheer cut through, endless christmas tunes interrupted by a horrific low rumble. America had fallen first, of course not before sending off their final response, a final cry for victory as both sides accepted that, war had ended ahead of schedule. Families slept on in the cheery air, until that very same air disintegrated, and with it, so did they.
In only a few short hours, there was as many missiles in the air as commercial flights, Tokyo, Istanbul, Los Angeles, Paris, Berlin, Johannesburg, Rio De Janeiro, Moscow, Washington. All reduced to little more than distant whispers of a world that nobody would ever know again. Tear's didn't fall because tear ducts were gone, who was left to cry?
England suffered its fair share, mere minutes after news of the first impact, 50 million tons worth of conventional explosive flattened the midlands, rose the lake diistrict to the ground, three million were gone. In the coming days, the sun became a distant memory. The billions still remaining had lost themselves in their desperation. Streets burned, homes burned, people, burned. It's March 22nd 1990. The streets of London no longer run red, they stand silent. Streets coated in ash, whether its day or night only changes the hue in the sky. A relative safe haven, and yet the threats didn't end. They never ended. Weather systems more akin to vengeful gods than nature's power. Winds of hundreds of miles an hour tear through streets, buildings and survivors. Flash floods congeal with ash and drag anything caught in the slide into 'Thames Cemetery'.
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(Will play any gender roles in any combination, don't be afraid to ask, and we can always tweak the premise to suit)